Redwood and Wildfire

by Andrea Hairston

  “This old thing rattles like it’s ready to fall down.” An older white woman in a smart gray jacket and skirt spoke to Redwood. “A train jumped the track yesterday and fell into the middle of the road. Two people almost died.”

  “That is too bad.” Redwood waved the image away. “This one’s got a bit more life.”

  The El pulled into a rickety station perched among old brick houses. Aidan spied rotten wood and rusty joints. Clean white sheets flapped on a taut laundry line. A man in thin long johns ate his breakfast on a third-floor porch. He chomped a fat sausage, washed it down with a steaming mug, and scratched his rear end. Aidan grinned.

  “It’s so dirty in here.” The old woman squirmed on a brown paper sack. “Do you know what you’re sitting in?”

  “Just as well that I don’t.” Redwood waved at big-eyed children staring in their compartment.

  As the train pulled out, Aidan inspected splintery walls and grimy windows. Wet filth on the floor had dried into a crust. Most of the seats were coming undone. ’Cross the aisle, some critter had crawled in the stuffing and —

  “You have to get off and pay again just to get anywhere.” The woman sighed. “They treat upstanding paying passengers as if we were poor riffraff. It’s criminal.”

  “Yes, a rich man’s dime is usually worth more than a poor man’s.” Aidan chuckled.

  “Excuse me, sir?” The lady looked puzzled.

  “The El’s carrying me to where I’m going. You too.” Redwood beamed at her. “What you complaining for? Are you scared?” She patted the lady’s freckled hand. “The moon could tumble out the sky and crash into everything. But it does look pretty rising early, like a white pearl in the morning sky. That’s what I want to think on.”

  “You’re in a good mood, girl.” The woman looked from her to Aidan. “I guess you have a rich sweetheart showing you the town? That’s the way to do it.”

  The passengers were mostly white folk, and they were all staring now, blue- and green-eyed strangers waiting for Redwood to answer.

  “We’re going to a rehearsal.” Aidan waved the banjo case — a present from Redwood — in their faces. “And then my sweetheart’s goin’ take me to the sights.”

  “Show people.” The woman nodded as if everything made sense, as if she knew who they were now. “Happy-go-lucky, footloose.”

  “This is our stop.” Redwood pulled Aidan up. “Good day to you, Ma’am.”

  “And to you.” The lady smiled at them both. “I’ll be looking out for your music.”

  Redwood jumped to the platform and hurried down the stairs.

  “Was she trying to make us feel bad?” Aidan asked.

  “She’s lonely.” Redwood watched the train rush off. “I bet her sweetheart’s passed on. Bet he showed her Chicago town once.”

  On the ground, the street went too slow. Aidan stumbled over the stillness. His eyes wouldn’t settle; the background kept hurtling along in a blur. He shifted his banjo case to the other shoulder and kept pace with Redwood’s brisk walk.

  “Why does Saeed want to live way out here in the suburbs? Take you half a day to walk to anywhere. He has to ride the train all the time and that cost a fortune.” She stopped at a row of houses. One ancient maple tree was hanging on, boughs clipped here and there to accommodate cables and wires. Its scraggly leaves were already yellow, and it was only August. No other green growing things, the rest of the street was under asphalt. “Can’t smell the lake from here. When the sun goes down there’s diddly to do.” She fanned her hot face. “I mean no singing and dancing, and Saeed can’t get enough of city night life. You all right?” She stepped into the sparse shade of the tree. “You haven’t said but a couple words all morning.”

  “I’m happy listening to you,” he said as they climbed a few stairs to number two-ninety-one, Saeed’s place. He was too jittery ’bout music-making for good conversation.

  “You like it here?” She tilted her head and licked her lips. “In Chicago I mean, up north, away from your swamp stink and starry nights.”

  He couldn’t tell what kind of answer she hoped for. “You teasing me?”

  “It’s a question.” She banged the knocker. When nobody came she rang the doorbell.

  “I don’t know if I like it yet,” he said. “Getting used to the city take time.”

  “The air’s so humid, don’t need clouds, just wring it out and it could rain.”

  “You complaining?” The wet heat made him feel at home. “You like it in Chicago?”

  “I don’t know either.” Redwood looked almost forlorn.

  Saeed opened the door. “Welcome.” He ushered them in. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, Mr. Wildfire.”

  “That makes two of us,” Aidan replied.

  “It is a surprise and a pleasure,” Saeed said.

  “Nothing against you, sir, just —”Aidan hung his hat on a rack shaped like a briar. It looked to have snatched coats and caps from folks running by.

  “Iris persuaded him,” Redwood said. “He thought he didn’t play good enough.”

  “We can always get better,” Saeed said.

  Redwood frowned. “That’s what I tell you, and you argue with me.”

  “I am found out — to believe what you say on occasion.” Saeed bowed. “I’ve heard Mr. Wildfire perform and need not take your word for how good he is.” The Prince’s rogue of a brother was certainly a charming fellow. “Follow me. We’re in back.”

  “The trolley was down. Lightning struck the lines last night. We rode the El.” Redwood took Saeed’s arm and breezed ahead. Aidan hugged his banjo and followed.

  Saeed’s apartment wasn’t at all like his brother’s train car. Heavy drapes kept out bright light and hot air. High-ceilinged rooms were cool and dry. Aidan smelled coffee brewing. Fruit, bread, and cheese were on a table at the parlor door. ’Cept for a piano, there was hardly a stick of furniture. No Oriental rug covered the parquet floor. The wood was worn shiny-smooth in the center. How much dancing did Mr. Saeed do? Seeing Aidan and Redwood, a colored man sat down to the keyboard; another one jumped up strumming a guitar; a compatriot of Saeed’s set the bow to his fiddle. They were familiar fellows from shows Aidan had seen, but he’d lost their names. They nodded at him and the banjo. His fingers itched and ached. Hoodoo magic is one thing, but spells don’t work without practice!

  “Are we late?” Redwood asked.

  “Everybody else was early,” Saeed said.

  “Let’s get going.” Aidan released the banjo from its case and strode to the piano.

  “What do we want to do?” Saeed said.

  “Start, I guess, and see what happens.” Redwood dipped down to the ground and sprang back, warming up for real dancing. Saeed got busy, stretching too.

  Aidan played a few licks on the banjo and the fiddle sailed in underneath him. They were lost several moments in the music. “Like on the elevated train, rushing ’round all over the place.” Aidan smiled. “But we got to tune.” The piano player hit a couple notes, and when Aidan tightened his strings to the right pitch, the fiddle started up fast. The guitar and piano jumped right in. Aidan took his time, taking each player in before his fingers found a few phrases to add.

  One song slid into another. Saeed and Redwood danced ’round the room as Aidan traded tunes with the musicians. “Too long since I played.” His fingers were tender. Nobody complained of bad notes though. Turn a mistake ’round right, it was bound to sound decent. “This beats raiding a wagon train of settlers any day.”

  Hours slipped by, and he played his fingers raw. Spots of blood dotted his banjo strings. His neck was stiff and back muscles cramped. While the other musicians drank coffee laced with strong spirits, Aidan sipped pomegranate juice — a Persian specialty. Redwood and Saeed guzzled a pitcher of icy lemonade. Everyone gobbled the fruit.

  “You sound good, Aidan Wildfire.” Redwood slurred her words as if she were drunk. She swayed back and forth on unsteady legs. “How you doing?”

&
nbsp; “Playing this music with you all,” he said, “well, it feels like coming home.”

  “Home. Yes.” Redwood stood close enough for him to feel the heat from her skin, to have a taste of her in his mouth. Was she trying to drive him crazy?

  The doorbell rang. “My guests are arriving early.” Saeed disappeared down the hall.

  “Is it evening already?” Aidan took a step away from Redwood.

  “It’s night,” the piano player said. “The sun’s been down.”

  The guitarman grunted. “Time ain’t nothing in here.”

  Elegant strangers flooded the room. Aidan recognized their manners and gestures if not particular faces: actors, producers, poets, and dancers dressed in bohemian fashions, puffing on cigarettes, and drinking from flasks. Flashy folk talking loud and fast, certain they’d seen everything worth seeing and knew everything worth knowing.

  Redwood leaned her damp face into Aidan’s neck. “I gotta sing, ’fore too many people come. What you got for me?”

  Aidan sang without thinking too much. Saeed danced behind Redwood, showing off for a handsome fellow slouched against the wall:

  Talk to me, sugar

  Talk to me, walk with me

  Tell me what you know good

  ’Fore the moon fall out the sky

  Don’t you cry for me

  ’Fore the train jump off the track

  Don’t you lie for me

  Stole my heart, now bring it back

  Treat me like a good woman

  Treat me like a good woman

  Treat me like a good woman should

  Saeed rolled hisself through the air, like a barrel rumbling ’cross the floor. “I can dance the lyrics you sing.”

  “You sure can.” Aidan’s throat throbbed. His fingers tingled. “You had the moon falling and the train jumping.”

  Redwood had sobered up from whatever made her tipsy. She snorted and cut her eyes at Aidan. Maybe she was mad at the lyrics, maybe she was sad. “I think I got it.” She joined him with a high harmony on a second time through. The fancy guests were enchanted. The fellow leaning on the wall stood up straight as Saeed vaulted in the air. He was a working man with soot on his knees, rough cap and gloves stuck in a back pocket, and a union flyer in the front. He didn’t mingle with the crowd, just watched Saeed’s every move. It looked like love if ever Aidan saw it. The union man caught Aidan staring and lifted his chin defiantly. Aidan shrugged. Chicago didn’t shock him the way everyone thought it should.

  “What does the good woman say in reply?” Saeed did a flourish at Redwood.

  “Sing something, Sequoia,” the union man urged.

  “I stole this song from Aidan.” She hummed it. The musicians knew just what to do. “He wrote this a long time ago back home in Georgia, but I would never sing it for him. Well, I’m singing it now with a few of my own lines.”

  I got a man say he b’lieve in me

  Gonna find a way for us both to be free

  “You remember that?” Aidan was touched.

  Redwood was in fine spirits. As she sang, Aidan would’ve sworn the elegant crowd turned into giant hummingbirds and butterflies buzzing between monster jackrabbits, waddling pigs, and grasshoppers springing into treetops. Redwood was a bolt of lightning lingering on a hilltop. He smelled ripe peaches and burnt air from the lightning.

  Hope’s a canoe, take us far from here

  Where a man can be a man without no fear

  She opened her storm hand and pulled the bird, bug, and animal forms into her palm, leaving regular dancing folks behind. Saeed’s guests were so drunk on good music, they didn’t mind the strange magic.

  “That’s one for the show.” Saeed smiled at Redwood and then at his union man. “I’m sure I can think of something to go with that.”

  Whizzing through the night, sparks flew under the train and tiny lights winked in the buildings, but hardly made a dent in the darkness. Redwood put her arm through Aidan’s. “I felt my old self again, rehearsing up a show with you.” She pressed against him. “More and more myself, since you hit town.”

  “That’s grand.” His face twisted up in a grimace.

  “What’s a matter?” She touched his frown.

  He drew away from her. The seat cracked open and stuffing poked his behind. “I ought to play more music.”

  “Making moving pictures can take all you got.”

  “We ain’t young anymore.”

  “Speak for yourself.” She tried to laugh. “You didn’t like the magic we did tonight?”

  “We?” He glanced at the other passengers. Nobody paid them any mind. “No. I feel grand making music with you. Best I ever feel.”

  “What ain’t you saying?”

  “You asked me once if I had a heart’s desire, if I wanted to go out in the world and make a bright destiny.”

  “I used to say all kinds of nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” Aidan sighed. “I don’t want us to settle for anything less.”

  A few weeks into rehearsing for the Ace of Spades, Aidan woke up on the wrong side of a nightmare, spoke words with nothing behind them, and said, “don’t touch me,” when Redwood reached to hug him. He offered no explanation, just took off for the motion picture factory in the dark. Dumbstruck, she sat on the window seat, dust balls swirling at her feet. With the rehearsals to look forward to, she’d been feeling hopeful, and thought Aidan was doing good too, but —

  “Can you fault him?” she scolded herself, like Miz Subie might. “He a lusty man who always liked the good company of women. Got an Irish temper, and no telling how Seminole spirit be firing his nature up.”

  She opened the window and watched him stride away. He paused, feeling her eyes on him no doubt. Crickets sang in the trees; a milk wagon clattered down the cobblestones. Aidan waved a hand over his head to her and raced ’cross the road, looking handsome and mad as all get out.

  Redwood was mad at him too, half the time, and then she wanted to kiss and squeeze him tight the other half. She just didn’t know how far they could go, before something bad happened, before her skin tightened like a shield ’round her heart, and she couldn’t feel pleasure or pain. Aidan got prickly or furious or guilty whenever she touched him. How could she find anything out without torturing him? They were goin’ lose each other this way, picking at old wounds, but seem like they didn’t know what else to do.

  Redwood climbed onto the ledge and jumped over a hydrangea bush. Heavy blue/violet blossoms bobbed in her face. Dew and pollen tickled her nose. The streetlight near the garden burned out with a hiss. The moon had set and the sky was a carpet of stars, yet none of them were shooting ’round making a show.

  Distant footsteps and a sinister laugh sent a charge up Redwood’s spine. Somebody out there was up to no good. Chicago was a dangerous town with folk doing each other in over pennies, and if she wasn’t goin’ let fear rule her life, she had to figure out what scared her so ’til she hid it from her ownself.

  “Conjure woman s’posed to call up a boat if she need to cross the water,” Iris said. She stood in the herb garden with a bloody gash on her leg. “But nobody ’round here like me enough to believe.”

  “What you doing up?” Redwood pretended not to be startled out her skin and hugged Baby Sister, who was tall and skinny as a sapling racing for the light.

  “They hate me mostly,” Iris said solemnly. She was thirteen going on a hundred.

  “Who? Little Frank and that roughhouse crew he run with? The boy’s jealous of Clarissa’s other kids and you too. He want his mama all for him.” Redwood pumped water on a handkerchief. “You so beautiful, folks just don’t know what to do.”

  “Uh huh.” Iris rolled her eyes.

  “Was Frank picking on George Jr. and the twins? Are you sticking up for your nieces and nephew?” Redwood sat down with her under the maple tree. “What you doing roving dangerous streets in the night?”

  “You do it too,” Iris said. “And not just to go heal folks. I ain�
�t ’fraid of —”

  “You ought to be. I been ambushed and hurt so bad, ’til I still ain’t healed.” She gripped Iris. “Spying is poison. It curdles your spirit. I’m speaking from experience.”

  Iris shuddered and looked away.

  Redwood plucked a bottle of cure-all from her waist bag. “This might sting.” She dabbed the long wound. Iris was never one to squeal or cry. She didn’t even flinch. “You got something special,” Redwood said, “a bright light shining through the night.” She pointed to the stars.

  “Shoot, everybody got that.” Iris blew her lips, like a disgusted filly. “I can see folks shining even in daytime, even the dim ones. You goin’ kiss it and make it better?”

  Redwood hesitated. Clarissa said colored folks didn’t need backcountry healers with all the modern medicine available.

  “Yeah, Aunt Clarissa say, why eat pig knuckles or pig innards if you can have a ham steak.” Iris held up her leg. “But everything we did back home ain’t like making do with the worst parts of the pig.”

  Redwood touched her lips to the wound, drawing the hurt away, and then hugged Iris again. “We been neglecting you. I’m sorry. Don’t let your light go dim ’cause some folks don’t want to see you — or nobody else — shining.”

  “Fire-haint come up from Georgia with me and Aidan. I follow her sometimes. She don’t let me catch her though.”

  “Haint? I never hear ’bout this before.”

  “Can I help?” Iris said.

  “Help what?”

  “You and —” Iris changed her mind midstream. “To make a scenario for the moving picture. Aidan said I had to ask you too.”

  Redwood sputtered. “If you want to. Of course.”

  “I’ve been reading stories and spending all my nickels seeing picture shows. Teacher said I was good at letters and making things up. She think I’m a liar.”